


Sharpe's Luck

by Sharpiefan



Category: Sharpe - All Media Types, Sharpe Series - Bernard Cornwell
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-21
Updated: 2012-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:03:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharpiefan/pseuds/Sharpiefan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sharpe has a very special reason to wear that old tattered jacket...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sharpe's Luck

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompts Luck and Superstition. I do not own Sharpe or Harper, nor am I profiting from playing with them.

Harper was examining the jacket in his hands. It looked no different from any other Rifle officer’s jacket, but he knew that it was. This jacket belonged to Captain Sharpe, and was the only jacket the officer had worn into battle since arriving in the Peninsula three years before. He was determined to find out what made his officer so attached to this faded and patched garment. And he could see that his officer was equally determined that he wouldn’t.

“Pat, stop arguing, and pass me my jacket!” Richard Sharpe was standing in shirt and trousers, one hand out for the return of his green jacket. The Irishman standing in front of him looked unrepentant, and the glare that Sharpe was directing at him was having no effect whatsoever.

“To be sure, you can go one day without it, sir. Just to prove you’re not superstitious about wearing it.” Harper examined the threadbare green jacket in his hand as if he were trying to find visual evidence of Sharpe’s attachment to the garment.

“I could do that, but I wouldn’t like to think what the Colonel would say if I was to walk around camp in me shirtsleeves all day. And I am not appearing on parade without it, and that’s final. Now hand it over!” Sharpe was well aware that half the Light Company was watching the exchange, and if he so much as glanced in their direction they would immediately feign innocence and fake interest in the colour of the sky (currently a very watery blue) or start picking at buttons or something.

Harper was enjoying this far too much for Sharpe’s comfort. Yes, he was attached to his jacket, but he’d never admit – even to himself – that he was superstitious about it. The only time he’d confess to being superstitious about anything was in battle, and then he would never stoop to taking comfort from finding a four-leaf clover, or touching a lucky rabbit’s foot. He never kept any bullet that had hit him. No, the things that made Sharpe lucky were random things – hitting a rock three times in a row with thrown pebbles, or a bird taking flight before he counted ten. Of course, there were other things that Sharpe counted as lucky: the sword he carried and the jacket he wore. But he would never admit to them. And there was Harper, standing there with an impudent grin on his Irish face, with half the Company listening to the Sergeant and the Captain arguing about things that made you lucky.

Of course, Sharpe knew that the Company were superstitious too. They counted themselves lucky to be led by Sharpe. No matter how many men died in battle, none of them fell because of Sharpe’s lack of soldiering knowledge and leadership. They thought of Sharpe as lucky and they would follow him to Hell and back if they had to, to prove it.

“And you can’t accuse me of being superstitious when you keep that crucifix round your neck for luck,” Sharpe said, wondering if he could tackle Harper to the ground and wrestle the jacket away. Probably not. Harper was four inches taller, and built like a prizefighter. There was also the added loss of dignity he would incur if he was caught, and the possibility of further damage to a jacket that was well past its best by now.

“I’m a good Catholic, so I am, and being in this army means I need to show it, surrounded as I am by pagans such as yourself, sir.”

Damn the man. He had an answer for everything. And he was still holding Sharpe’s jacket. He sighed, and decided to change tactics. “If you don’t hand that jacket over in the next fifteen seconds, I’ll make sure you get posted on picket tonight. And tomorrow night. And possibly even the night after. So give it.”

“Just for a jacket, sir?” He looked at it again, and picked at a bit of braiding that was pulling away from the faded green cloth. “Must be some special reason why you like it so much.”

“I’m waiting… unless you really do want to do picket for the rest of your natural life.”

Harper looked for a moment as though he was considering it, before reluctantly passing the jacket back. Sharpe shrugged it on and began fastening up the buttons. Hopefully he wouldn’t be too late for his meeting with the colonel.

As he walked away, he heard the Chosen Men begin talking with Harper in low voices. Yes, there was a reason that Sharpe’s jacket was so special to him; he’d bought it when he’d first transferred to the Rifles, and wearing it reminded him of happy times with Lady Grace Hale, the first person apart from the tailor to see him in it.

And if wearing it made him lucky, well, a man made his own luck. And this jacket was Sharpe’s luck.


End file.
